That will bring us back to doe…oh, oh, oh.

It just hit me I am going to have three kids.

I was in the bathroom, totally hating myself for the spicy chicken sandwich I picked up from Wendys and practicing some none hideous pushing the baby out faces in the mirror with the door locked, and the boys were literally trying to break the door down.

First of all, who can get anything done with that kind of distraction?

Secondly, holy fuck, there will be three of them.

This whole situation is totally not as Von Trappy as I imagined.  No singing in the trees wearing cutesy outfits made from curtains.  No harmonizing and stormy evening pillow fights.

It’s kinda like Jerry Springer..with midgets.  Midgets with tempers who throw things at you and backwash into your drink.

So, I wake up each morning hoping that if I just keep them clean, full and alive, I won’t get hit across the face with a chair.

It’s insane.

In fact, the only reason I even managed to put pants on today was so I could go hide in my car and eat the rest of a Frosty I hid in the freezer.

And yet, here I am, desperately trying to work this third baby down the ‘ole birth canal.

Because kids are like tacos, and I can’t seem to get fucking enough of them.

Mmm…guacamole.

Either way, pregnancy is a funny thing.

You do it like rabbits to even get knocked up in the first place.  Then for the whole first 12 weeks, you puke your guts out.  And even super horny guys won’t have sex with girls who smell like vomit and have chunks of corn in their hair.

But then, the second trimester comes, and boom, you’re a porn star.  In fact, you’d hike your ass up on the washing machine during the spin cycle if you could successfully lift your own body weight.  Which you can’t.  So you settle for making a run to Chipotle and taking the bumpy road home.

And then, your hips start to widen, and you can’t see your feet anymore, and you pee when you walk, and the only way to put an end to all this misery is to stimulate labor.  Except, you are a big fat cow who can’t see her feet anymore, and all you want to do is waddle to the fridge for more leftover cold hot wings from last night.

So, you weigh your options, and decide giving birth would totally make room for even more hot wings, so it seems, giving it up is the way to go.  Plus, your poor husband is operating on a time crunch.  He knows that as soon as that thing crowns, it’s like Punxsutawney Phil popping out and seeing his shadow, there ain’t going to be shit going down for at least six more weeks, so he has to make bank while he can.

So, I decided to make the best of the situation last night, and sent the boys to Oma’s.

First of all, holy pubey mcunderpants, let’s just kill to birds with one stone here and get in the mood with an intimate cleaning up of the girly parts.  It needed to be done, and it’s not like I could see what the fuck was going on down there, so I thought, how hot would it be to have the hubs do it?

Holy labia.

It was literally like I had Scott MacIntyre down there hacking away with a rusty knife.

10 squirts of Bactine later.

Sexy time.  Which is no longer resembles anything like the porn star days of old.

Nope.  Now, having sex with me and my complete lack of control of my bodily functions is much like having sex with Al Bundy…except I am not drunk…which is a bummer, because it totally would have made the fact that I farted, yes farted, halfway through, much less fucking humiliating.

If I wasn’t operating on an agenda and was at all able to quickly roll off the bed without potentially farting again, I would have crawled into a hole and died immediately.

But I couldn’t.

So, instead we got dressed and went for tacos.

Mmmm…guacamole.